


relics of a bygone sky

by wintersrose616



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route, Golden Deer Felix Hugo Fraldarius, M/M, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:07:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27868905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintersrose616/pseuds/wintersrose616
Summary: He idly remembers years ago, back in their school days, how the professor had come to him, asking him to be in their class. He had laughed the offer off, thinking they couldn’t have been serious, and besides that, he couldn’t fathom leaving Felix, Dimitri, and Ingrid behind to join the Golden Deer, no matter how many times the professor had plied him with tea and gifts.Two days after their offer, Felix had joined the Golden Deer, and Sylvain felt like he had been slapped..Sylvain never thought he’d make it to twenty-five. As he watches Felix, alongside the Alliance, power through Gronder Field against Edelgard, he prepares to accept his fate with only one regret.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 10
Kudos: 109





	relics of a bygone sky

The Great Tree Moon heralds not only Fódlan’s new year, but the beginning of spring.

The field around him is staunched in the beauty of budding flowers, trees that have finally gotten their green leaves back from winter’s cold clutch. This far south, he doubts that it gets nearly as bad as in Faerghus, where Fhirdiad is always just a little bit cold, even on the brightest and hottest day of summer, but the traces of spring pushing through is evident everywhere he looks.

He’s in a small grove of trees in the midst of the field, the ground covered in short underbrush that crunches whenever he shifts his weight. Dappled sunlight falls around him, his armour catching small bits here and then, still surprisingly shiny despite the wear and tear on the metal.

It’s a beautiful day. The sun is bright overhead, and the parts of the sky Sylvain can see speckled through the canopy of trees overhead is brilliantly blue. The new moon promises to be kinder than the last few years have been, winter ending swiftly in the south, promising what he hopes is bountiful harvests for the commonfolk.

It’s here, laying amongst resilient flowers and dirt alike, that his mind takes him to the inevitable conclusion of the day.

Sylvain is going to die.

He knows it as soon as his horse is shot down from underneath him, as soon as he hits the ground and feels his shoulder dislocate. The archer that took him down—Bernadetta, he thinks, blithely, wildly mourning in these last moments what had once been the start of a friendship—didn’t bother to finish the job. Largely in part, he believes, due to Edelgard setting her on fire, but that leaves Sylvain with at least three broken ribs, a fucked up arm, and his foot twisted in a direction he knows it isn’t supposed to be in.

He wonders if his rib pierced a lung. If that’s why it’s so hard to breathe.

The little patch of woods he’s tucked himself into is at the edge of Gronder Field. The Kingdom Army _had_ been retreating, until Dimitri had decided to launch himself towards the Imperials. The Imperials who were _also_ retreating, due to the Alliance. Sylvain’s focus had been on his wayward prince again, one of the few left without major injuries able to chase after him.

He had been determined not to let Dimitri die out here.

Look where it’s gotten him.

Edelgard’s losing, at least. He’s thankful for that. Claude and the Alliance hadn’t been a fully anticipated part of this battle. Their scouts had heard rumours about the Alliance drawing closer, but the messengers they had sent to Claude never returned. Had Sylvain been able to convince Dimitri to see _reason_ , they could’ve sent Ingrid or another flyer to Claude as soon as the battle had begun. Had they been able to fight side by side with the Alliance, Edelgard would have been forced to yield far earlier, before their losses had gotten as bad as they had.

Instead, Dimitri’s had stayed focused solely on Edelgard, which meant Sylvain had to give direct orders to keep their fighting strictly against the Empire. As soon as he had spotted Felix in the distance, beside Claude’s wyvern, he had been hellbent in making sure that none of their soldiers laid a hand on anyone under the Alliance banner.

He doubts Felix would allow any of their soldiers anywhere near him with their lives intact, but it had still been a heart wrenching realization that he was here on this blasted field as well.

Sylvain idly remembers years ago, back in their school days, how the professor had come to him, asking him to be in their class. He had laughed the offer off, thinking they couldn’t have been serious. Besides that, Sylvain’s closest friends were all in the Blue Lions class. He couldn’t fathom leaving Felix, Dimitri, and Ingrid behind to join the Golden Deer, no matter how many times the professor had plied him with tea and gifts.

Two days after their offer, Felix had joined the Golden Deer, and Sylvain felt like he had been slapped.

Regardless, he had carried on, staying with Dimitri and Ingrid, Annette and Mercedes, Ashe and Dedue. It had fallen on his shoulders to try to keep them afloat after everything started to happen, month after month of nonstop chaos.

Claude had asked him to join the Deer, too, once. They used to play chess in the gardens under the shade of a gazebo.

_Let’s make a wager,_ Claude had said, eyes shimmering with mischief over the set up chessboard. _If I win, you’ll join the Golden Deer._

Sylvain, much like his rejection to the professor, had laughed. _No thanks; I don’t really feel like betting my learning structure over a game of chess._

_Scared?_

_Not at all. Someone has to watch out for Faerghus’ beloved prince._

They had settled on if Claude won, Sylvain would do his chores. Sylvain had lost, on a claim it hadn’t been intentional. Claude hadn’t believed him then, and Sylvain really hadn’t tried to convince him otherwise, hopping from the chair to flee towards the training grounds where he knew Felix would be as soon as the match was called.

Felix’s offer—a demand, really—had been the last one to come. It had been the only one Sylvain hadn’t been able to laugh at. Laughing at the offer would have ended their friendship then and there, for it would’ve been _fake_ , something Felix always hated him for being around others. Felix has always been able to see right through him, even back in their Academy days where his vision had been clouded by unbridled grief and rage.

He had been bitter, torn, after the death of the professor’s father, cornering Sylvain in the Blue Lions classroom, argumentative from the start.

_Something bigger is coming. Something beyond us. Everyone can see it—you can’t honestly be in denial._

_I’m not, Fe—that’s why I can’t leave Dimitri and Ingrid by themselves._

_Forget about the boar, Sylvain!_

Before the argument could get too out of hand, the professor had arrived, one of the first times they had been out of their room since their father’s death. Neither had wanted to keep up a fight in front of them, their attention going straight to ensuring the professor was feeling up to being out and about.

He wonders, while the sun shines overhead, the scent of the burning field in his nostrils, the muted screams of battle beyond this little patch of forest reach his ears, had he taken _any_ of them up on his offer, where would he be?

Still here, on this field, most certainly, but maybe he wouldn’t be bleeding internally, lingering with painful breaths for death to come welcome him into the burning eternity that awaits him.

_Maybe_.

He can’t say he’s surprised, really. He always assumed he’d die before he hit thirty. He figured once the war had started, he wouldn’t live to see the end of it. Now that he’s gotten a taste, a certainty that no one else besides death is coming for him, he’s not certain he wants it to end like this. He didn’t think it’d be here, in the south. If his cursed blood was to shed itself anywhere, he always pictured it up north, dying in the tundra of Gautier, fighting over land that shouldn’t be called theirs with his final breath being mostly frost.

Here in the warm, spring field of Gronder, he feels like he’s unworth it.

He wonders how Felix is going to react, upon hearing his death. He’s breaking their promise, months after the last time they had seen each other, leaving with bitter tastes in their mouths. It hadn’t fully been Sylvain’s idea to go to Fraldarius, but his father insisted that if the report was going to come from Gautier, it was going to come _from_ a Gautier. The Margrave wasn’t going to risk leaving their territory, which meant Sylvain had to go.

At that point, it had been nearly two years since he had seen Felix, all of the letters sent to him unreturned. Sylvain had been welcomed warmly into the estate, Rodrigue hugging him as if he was more than happy to see him—as if at that point none of them knew Dimitri was still alive. He had barely opened his mouth to let Rodrigue know about the most recent invasion attempt by the Sreng when the study’s door burst in, Felix standing in the doorway with a palm on the wood and his other still gripping the dulled steel blade from the training grounds. His cheeks had been rosy from Faerghus’ early winter chill, combined with exertion from training.

He had been the most radiant sight Sylvain had ever beheld.

Felix had asked him then, too, to come with. Rodrigue had been insistent that Sylvain stay the night. Felix had led him to the guest room, asking him to go with him to Garreg Mach. Sylvain had been left baffled, wondering just what had compelled him to go _south_ , but Felix had explained with a fresh blush, avoiding Sylvain’s eyes, that he had made a promise that he would show. He had been determined that the professor and Claude would show, too.

Sylvain hadn’t mocked him for his faith, but he had been hesitant to believe in it. The professor had been declared dead—but, then again, so had Dimitri.

_At least with the Alliance, we’d stand a chance at winning this damn war,_ Felix had spat, taking Sylvain’s delay in answer. They hadn’t been able to talk it out, everything had gone from simmering, low burning frustration to outright, boiling anger.

They hadn’t even tried to talk it out.

Felix’s kisses had been more bites than actual kiss, more anger than passion, a way to dig his nails in to leave a reminder of him in Sylvain’s skin for weeks after. Sylvain hadn’t let himself tell Felix anything else besides what he wanted to hear, far too afraid of what could happen if he had. Instead, he let Felix use him for what he needed at the time.

Sylvain had always been used to being there for the others when no one else could—Felix especially. Sylvain was more than happy to be the first one Felix ran to when he needed his tears wiped away. This had been no different. Felix was just angry, frightened, and needed an outlet.

He’s broken out of his regret filled reverie by the sound of footsteps, a familiar noise of armoured boots crunching through the dirt and underbrush.

_Here it comes._

His eyes lift, his head tilting to the side. He recognizes the colours of the Imperial soldier immediately, but the details are still fuzzy, vision not yet clear.

“Funny,” he rasps. “Thought you were all retreating.”

When the boot comes down against his side, Sylvain can’t even get enough energy to do more than cough bloody foam. No last minute quips, no witty banter. He accepts the kick with a muffled groan, the pain twinging through from his ribs nothing more than an afterthought.

There’s a spew of words from the soldier—something about the Emperor winning, which is wrong. Sylvain musters the effort to look at him, ready to correct him, unable to shut up even in the face of his inevitable death.

Except when he blinks enough for his vision to see the soldier’s face, all thoughts of being snarky in his final moments go out the window. He looks up into the face of his killer and realizes all at once he can’t be older than sixteen. Baby fat fills his cheeks and he looks absolutely terrified, voice quivering with fear. There’s blood spattering his face, though be it his own or other victims, Sylvain isn’t sure.

A child.

He’s going to be killed by a child.

It shouldn’t be as baffling to him as it is. In Faerghus, they start training as children. Felix and Dimitri had both taken part in the Western Rebellion at an age similar to this kid’s. Even some of the Kingdom’s troops were teenagers, though Dimitri, in all of his madness, seemed opposed at putting them on the front lines like this.

The kid lifts his sword. His hands are trembling. Sylvain lets his head thud back against the dirt. He’s already in so much pain, he shouldn’t care that this kid isn’t going to kill him cleanly, _quickly._

Besides, by the looks of it, he’s going to be this kid’s first kill. He almost wants to congratulate him—his first kill being one of Faerghus’ top generals. Cheers.

He doesn’t get the chance. There’s a sharp, high pitched sound, a _fwip!_ that ends with a muted sound and the sound of the kid grunting. A shadow falls over Sylvain, a chill falling over him as he struggles to open his eyes. The sound he hears isn’t the pounding of his heart, his blood in his ears—it’s the sound of wyvern wings.

The kid has an arrow embedded in his shoulder, his panic causing him to try to tug it out. Sylvain wants to warn him against that, but his focus is on the wyvern swooping down, a figure in teal leaping from the saddle. The Imperial catches sight of him and all Sylvain can focus on is the bright, unnatural glow of the shield on the newcomer’s arm.

_Felix._

Sylvain can’t be dead. Not yet. But if he is, what a cruel vision to see. Claude had _won_ —what in the world was he doing here, this deep into where the Kingdom had fought?

His lips part to form his name, but Felix’s attention is on the child soldier still above him. He doesn’t hear what words are spoken, but the kid takes off running, fleeing, and the next thing Sylvain knows is Felix above him, dropping to his knees.

“. . .vain— _Sylvain_! Can you hear me? Stay awake!”

Warm, leather gloves cup his jaw, Felix’s eyes widened with panic as he tries to assess Sylvain’s wounds. Sylvain makes a noise—he tries to speak, but it gets garbled on the way out. Sharp, umber eyes snap to his, Felix’s brows furrowing over them. Sylvain wants to reassure him, tell him he’s fine. He wants Felix to go before it’s too late, but another figure appears in his vision, pink hair vibrant even in the shadows of the trees.

_Hi, Hilda_ , Sylvain tries to say. _Lovely weather today, isn’t it?_ He speaks more garbled, mangled syllables and Felix hushes him.

“Stay with me, okay?” Felix’s fingers smooth over Sylvain’s forehead, brushing hair away. “We can’t move him like this,” he grits out.

“Here, I have a vulnerary—it’s not much, but it’ll work until I can get back.”

A bottle is passed between them before Hilda vanishes from his sight, her call of, _I’ll be back with Marianne soon!_ floating across the wind.

Felix shifts, trying to prop Sylvain’s head on his lap, and the groan that Sylvain gives is one he’s not able to swallow down.

“Sorry, sorry, I just can’t have you choking. C’mon, drink this.”

A cold bottle is pressed to Sylvain’s lips. He knows he must drink, if he stands a chance of giving Felix a winded, dying speech, but his first instinct is to still flinch away. He can’t go far—Felix is cradling his head in his lap, after all. Above him, there’s a huffed noise, Felix’s hand sliding to the back of his neck to help prop him.

“Don’t you try to fight me— _drink_ , Sylvain.”

He chokes down the vulnerary, the bitter taste washing away the coppery taste of his blood in his mouth. It helps, but barely. Breathing no longer hurts when he sucks in a deep breath, but his body still aches, his shoulder and leg protesting everything.

Felix curses under his breath, leaning down, all but bent over Sylvain. He’s haloed by the bit of sunlight shining down, Sylvain’s own personal angel that’s practically glaring at him.

“Talk to me,” he orders.

“Hi, Fe,” Sylvain murmurs, voice thick.

Felix huffs. "I'm not dying," he insists, tone sharp, hitching with his panic, "which means you're not, either. You promised me, Sylvain. Damn it, you _promised!"_

"Sorry," he manages, voice weak, as brittle as glass, cracking on the second syllable of his apology. "'m sorry, Fe."

"Don't apologize," says Felix. "Stop talking, you need your strength, just stay awake. Hilda will be back soon."

Sylvain lifts his good arm as much as he can. His movements are sluggish, his breathing starting to hurt again. His fingers are shaking, not even gentle trembles, but violent, jerky movements. Felix’s catches sight of it, his own hand moving from Sylvain’s jaw to take it, gripping his hand so tight that it should hurt.

“You’re going to be okay,” Felix declares.

"'ve you," he tries for, breath a mere wisp. He needs Felix to hear it, though. Steels himself and tries again. " _Love_ you."

He watches Felix’s face register the words, contorting through shock before relief, then landing on an emotion Sylvain can’t name.

Felix grits out a curse. "You fool. You _oaf_. I love you, too. I always have! Which is why you can't leave me. Not again. You’re not getting a deathbed confession. You’re going to live, Sylvain, you have to.”

Sylvain tries to agree, his thoughts all honing in on _I love you, too._ He almost believes in that instant they could have a life together, outside of war and bloodshed, of torn loyalties.

He almost believes that Felix’s words are true, and not spoken in a desperate fit to please Sylvain, to tide him over until Sylvain does as he wishes.

Almost believes it’s possible for someone to love him back.

Almost—

_Almost—_

**.**

  
When Sylvain wakes, he wakes with a start. His heartbeat is kicked into a fast pace, pounding against his ribcage, and his breath comes in short bursts.

He has no idea where he is.

The room he’s in seems almost familiar, in a vague sense, the stone wall that the bed he’s in rests against tickling at the edge of his memory, but his body feels too heavy, not at all in tune with the panic starting to course through his veins.

He’s impossibly warm, almost to the point of discomfort. There’s a tightness to his body, his muscles protesting however long he’s been bedridden. The weight atop him is nothing more than heavy, quilted blankets that remind him of Mercedes‘ batch that she had helped back for the Kingdom’s wounded.

He thought he was going to die, but he obviously isn’t. He just has no idea where he is.

He can’t remember getting off Gronder. He can’t remember the Kingdom picking a camp anywhere close to a place that would have spare beds. He tries to go through the last things he remembers, step by step.

His horse had been killed beneath him. Edelgard ordered Bernadetta’s pitch to be set ablaze, meaning she couldn’t kill _him_ , too. He had fallen. Messed up his shoulder and leg. Someone had come to kill him, an Imperial soldier, a _kid_ , so why is he—

It comes back to him all at once. Felix and Hilda atop her wyvern. The vulnerary he had choked down just to be able to stay conscious long enough for Felix to tell him he loved him, but if that was true—

He manages to move his head to the side. The far wall that he sees sends him careening back five years, back to nights in the dorm in his Academy days.

He’s at the monastery. Garreg Mach.

Before that can process and his panic can start anew at him being in the midst of the Alliance’s main operations, an odd shape catches his attention at the edge of his vision.

Near the foot of the bed, sitting on the ground, Felix is propped back against the bed. Sylvain can see his arms are loosely crossed, a sword resting on his lap. He’s dozing, but he’s still in between the door and Sylvain. A guard that he knows would wake as soon as that old wooden door started to creak.

Sylvain can’t stop the smile on his face. He’s hit with a rush of affection, of such unbelievable love that it knocks his breath from his lungs.

There are a few strands of inky black falling out of the hastily tied tail Felix’s hair is in, brushing the top of the bed. Sylvain shifts slowly, gingerly, his muscles and old wounds protesting the movement as he peels his arm out from the abundance of bedcovers to reach out. His fingertips catch the loose hair, the silky strands sifting through his fingers.

As soon as he touches his hair, Felix startles, jolting awake, his hand reaching for his sword immediately. Sylvain starts to apologize, before Felix has even fully processed what’s happened, but he’s cut off when Felix whirls to face him, his eyes wide.

“Sorry—“

Felix stares at him, the silence between them broken only by the sound of their breathing. Sylvain tries for a smile after a moment.

“I’ve been out for a while, huh?”

“Flames, you’re so— _so—_!”

Whatever insult or jab Felix goes to say stops short as he all but launches himself from the ground and up onto the bed. He lands atop Sylvain who lets out a weak groan, brushing off Felix’s apology as soon as it starts in acceptance of the hug he gets instead.

They stay like that for a long moment, Sylvain’s arms squeezed about Felix’s waist as his arms stay locked behind his neck. As soon as Felix starts to shift back, Sylvain lets him go, letting his hands drop. He looks up at Felix, smiling softly.

“How long have I been out?”

“Three days,” Felix states, breathless, before he leans down and kisses Sylvain.

It takes Sylvain a moment before his thoughts catch up, and he realizes Felix is _kissing_ him. His hands are still slow in their ascent, but before Felix can grow too nervous about his rigidness, they land on his shoulders, reaching up to tangle against the hair at the nape of his neck. Felix pulls back just enough to exhale a relieved sigh against his lips before Sylvain catches him again, kissing him deeply.

When they finally do part for breath, Felix doesn’t go far. His eyes are squeezed shut, his forehead snug against Sylvain’s. Sylvain catches sight of the blush burning along his cheeks, up his ears and down his neck. He grins, all too giddy, his thumb brushing across heated skin.

“Hi,” he sighs.

Felix’s hands ball into fists on his chest. “I can’t _stand_ you.” He pulls back so he’s sitting atop Sylvain’s thighs, all but glaring down at him. “Do you have _any_ idea what it felt like, not having any idea where you were on that damned field?”

Sylvain can relate. He had lost sight of Felix early on in the fight, and despite knowing how capable he is as a fighter, there had been an underlying sense of terror throughout the battle.

He doesn’t get a chance to voice his thoughts, though, before Felix barrels on.

“I saw Ingrid and my father go after the boar while he was still snarling. Claude was able to get him out of there, but I had no idea where you were. I knew if you weren’t hurt, _you_ would’ve been the first one to his side, and when I saw that you weren’t—“

Felix cuts himself off with a choked, frustrated huff. Sylvain’s hands, which had moved to his hips to steady him, squeeze before his thumbs rub soothing circles against the sharp jut of bone he can feel underneath the layers Felix wears.

“I’m sorry,” he says, helpless to do anything _but_ apologize.

“ _Don’t_ apologize,” Felix snaps, lifting one of his hands to scrub at his eyes. “You worried all of us, you fool.”

Sylvain’s mouth opens, jaw snapping shut before he can apologize again. He swallows the thick lump that’s formed in his throat, exhaling a shaky breath. “You saved me, though.”

_“Barely,_ ” scoffs Felix. “Marianne did most of the work.”

“ _You_ did,” Sylvain insists. “You did and brought Marianne and—“

_And you said you loved me._

He can’t ask him if he meant it, not now. He thinks it’s pretty obvious, with the way he has Felix _seated in his lap._ Felix had always been the type to show his affections through actions, instead of words. Sylvain had heard him say it once, it had to be enough for now.

Felix shifts, his hand coming up to brush the hair out of Sylvain’s eyes. “Sylvain.”

He looks up to him. The effort of holding eye contact is causing the blush on Felix’s face to come back with a vengeance, the high spots of colour on his cheeks going from a peachy rose, to a dark scarlet. Sylvain’s far too entranced to do anything more than just _stare_ , waiting for whatever it is Felix will give him.

And what he does makes Sylvain feel like his chest has been cleaved in two with relief.

“I love you.”

Sylvain’s breath leaves his lungs in a burst that’s close to a sob. It startles Felix, but before he can panic, Sylvain tugs him back down, sealing their mouths together.

Later, Sylvain has plenty of questions as to what’s happened in the past three days, and later, Felix will probably tease him with how quickly he starts to babble, smearing messy kisses along Felix’s jaw and down his neck in between bursts of _love you, love you._

For now, though, he seems more than content to let Sylvain hold him close with his arms wound around his waist. For now, he answers Sylvain with his own softly admitted, _love you, too._

**Author's Note:**

> how many times can I write the same fic plot with different ships before someone stops me
> 
> [tweet tweet](https://twitter.com/wintersrose616)


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